Winter's Heart
by Slayergirl
Summary: A vignette of Edmund's thoughts during much of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Rated really only for violence that appears in the books anyway.


**Winter's Heart**

_What have I done?_ Though already cold from his surroundings, greater cold and fear struck through Edmund like icy lightning at the faun's question about his sister's wellbeing. _Lucy. Oh, God, Lucy. Never mind Peter and Susan are mixed up in this as well, but Lucy… what have I done? __**What have I done?**_ He was screaming in his mind now, panic threatening to take hold. _I might as well have killed her with my bare hands as betray her. For sweets. Sweets! As if I care about sweets when Lucy… Oh, God, Lucy, what have I done? I was supposed to look after you…_

He bit his lip, hard, to stop tears from spilling over. In a hysterical moment he wondered if they'd freeze like icicles onto his eyelashes. Gratitude stabbed through him as the faun – Mr. Tumnus – tried to deflect the witch's questions from him, then pain followed as he betrayed them again, to save his own skin. Horror came last of all, as the faun was dragged away, to who knew what fate. He wondered if he was going to be sick.

As he travelled beside the witch, his thoughts were in turmoil. Would the wolves find them? Would they be killed? Could he escape, somehow? And if he did, how long would he last here, in the bitter winter, unable to tell who was friend or foe? _What was I thinking?_ he wondered again.

It was crystal-clear in his mind, now: his resentment of his siblings. Lucy, for being a burden he didn't want, for usurping the coveted place of the spoiled youngest of the family. He'd resented her for that, when it wasn't her fault. And just look at what she offered: unwavering love and affection, even when he teased her and taunted her. She was like a little ray of sunshine, always hopeful for something better. He couldn't bear the thought of that sunshine being extinguished.

And if Lucy was like a ray of sunshine, then Peter was something akin to it, too, fiery and passionate. He'd resented Peter for bossing him around, without thinking how hard it must have been for Peter, as the eldest, with their father off at war. He'd had to step up and be the man of the house, look after his three younger siblings, and had nobody to help him adjust to that; he was trying to be a man, and knew only how to be a boy. He was struggling to do the right thing, and Edmund realised he'd undermined him, questioned him, and been a brat, generally. Peter had been trying to look after them, and was swimming against a tide of confusion and resentment. He hadn't asked for this, either.

Then Susan… beautiful, practical Susan, who was trying to mother them all. She, too, was struggling, trying to be a woman when she was still a girl, and shouldn't have to look after her siblings as if she was their mother. _It's not fair,_ he thought suddenly. _It's so unfair on them. They shouldn't have to do this!_ But she did it, willingly. When he thought back, he recalled the lost, confused look in those star-blue eyes as she tried to figure out how to do the right thing, the things their mother would normally do, the tired look on her pale, moon-like face, paler than ever since they were evacuated. She missed their mother, he realised, more than she wanted to admit, not having a role model there for her to guide her. He felt a pang of conscience at his actions towards her, too. _I've been such an idiot. Was I really so self-absorbed that I didn't see what was happening to them until now? That I didn't see what I was doing to them?_

He missed them, so, so much. He would have given anything to see them again, assure himself that they were alive and well. But if he did… he shuddered. What would they say to him, if they knew of his betrayal? Did they already know? Were they already dead? He swallowed the lump in his throat. _What have I done?_ he asked himself again. _What have I done?_

Meeting with the fox gave him some hope that they were still alive, though he cursed himself for his clumsy efforts to protect it, which had come to nothing anyway. Strangely, it was the butterfly's fate that had hit him hardest; for what wrong had the butterfly ever done to Jadis? It was simply a creature in the wrong place at the wrong time, beautiful and airy. It had reminded him fleetingly of Susan, though he wasn't sure why. Susan… he frowned. Yes, that was it; Susan was like spring, blossoming and fresh, hinting at fruits to come. Peter was like the summer, warm and majestic. Then Lucy… lively and chestnut-headed, like autumn blowing through glades in the golden September light, when fruit was ripe and the world felt good and replete.

No wonder he'd been drawn to the witch, for winter was left for him: cold and unwelcome, devoid of life. Bitter, resentful winter was his. Ice and snow and wind and sleet.

No wonder, too, that the witch had taken against the butterfly, that harbinger of spring. He wasn't a fool; he understood what that meant, and he allowed himself the tiniest ray of hope. That a butterfly should appear was a sign of spring, not just a rare thaw. And if it was the witch's doing that Narnia was snow-bound, and spring was on the way, then her power must be on the wane. But was it enough? He bit his lip again. _Let it be enough,_ he thought, trying to ignore the sting on his cheek where she'd hit him. _Please, God, let it be enough._

Cold as a frost-ringed moon on a winter's night though his heart was at the thought of Jadis finding his siblings, he longed to take off the coat that, now, felt as though it smothered him. _Please let them still be alive,_ he begged whatever unknown force might be listening to the thoughts in his head. _Whatever happens to me, please, just let them be okay._

His thoughts kept jumbling together, a mixture of anguish over his actions and a plea that his siblings escape whatever fate the witch had in mind for them. As he sat, bound to the tree, his mind went over and over the same mantras. _What have I done? Let them be okay, please let them be okay._ He had long since ceased to think of his own wellbeing, barely noticing the pain in his bound wrists, the filthy gag in his mouth. He knew he'd brought this suffering on himself, and didn't resent it; welcomed it, even, as a just punishment for his actions. He would have welcomed even his own death if it meant that his brother and sisters would remain free and unharmed.

Then all hell seemed to break loose around him, and he found himself snatched up and thrown, rather like a sack, onto the back of what he realised must be a centaur, galloping away from the witch's encampment as swiftly as the wind. He held on with stiff hands, not knowing if the creature was friend or foe, but fervently hoping that wherever they were going would be far, far away from Jadis. As hands helped him down from the centaur's back, he looked up into the face of a lion. The sun was beginning to rise behind it, and it glowed gold in the early morning light. He fell to his knees, tired and weak, waiting for death.

"Rise, Son of Adam." The voice was warm, rich, and breathed life and peace into him. He stood unsteadily, realising that this must be Aslan.

"Sir, I…" he swallowed. What could he say? "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. Are they… Peter… and Susan and Lucy, are they… are they…"

"They are sleeping."

"But not… not harmed?" he asked anxiously.

The lion licked his forehead, but he didn't feel threatened by it; rather, he felt comforted. "They are well." Relief washed over him, and he swayed unsteadily. "Place your hand on my mane, Son of Adam, and we will walk a while. There are many things to speak of."

Tentatively, Edmund laid his hand on the lion's mane, and walked with him for a while. Strength seemed to flood back into him, and hope, coursing up his hand from the golden fur. He poured out his tale to Aslan, not asking for forgiveness nor expecting it, not seeking to defend or excuse his own actions, nor blame his siblings for their part in it, but gave a simple, honest, even-handed account of what had happened. He fell apart as he told of the butterfly, and how it had reminded him of Susan; and though he glossed over his thoughts of himself as epitomising winter, it did not escape the great lion's notice.

"You think ill of winter, Edmund," he said finally. "Yet it is simply a part of the cycle of the year, as necessary to life as the other seasons are, in their turn. It was evil here only because it was unnatural, and overcame the natural cycle of the seasons. This is what happens when one of the four becomes more powerful than the others. Do you understand me, Son of Adam?"

Edmund nodded, a lump in his throat; this is what he had desired, and he now saw how damaging it was. "I understand," he replied meekly.

"You are your brother's opposite in so many ways," mused Aslan. "But that is as it should be. For those differences complement each other. You are dark, and he is light, just as Susan is dark and Lucy is light. You are steady and logical and rational, as Susan is; Lucy and Peter are more open, more intuitive. You and Susan are night to Peter and Lucy's day. But, you see, all those things are in balance. None has the upper hand. When all are equal, all is harmony."

Edmund nodded silently.

Aslan continued. "Therefore do not grieve that you are the winter. Remember that winter, too, has its place. It is the quiet time, the sleep time, when the earth rests and is renewed in time for the coming spring. The snow brings water, and the water gives life. Some seeds need the cold so that the warmth will awaken them. And," he added joyfully, and Edmund felt his heart beat faster at the gladness in the lion's voice, "in winter comes Christmas, with all its merry-making and good cheer. And who would want to miss Christmas?" And he tossed Edmund lightly up into the air as if he was a tiny kitten, catching him again in his paws, and setting him down gently on his feet, both of them exhilarated and laughing.

Edmund sighed. "I… don't know what to say to them," he confessed, the mirth fading from him.

"There will be no need to say anything," replied the lion simply. "It may be awkward at first, but they will accept you. They are your family, Edmund, and they love you."

"I don't deserve it," he whispered. "After what I did… I don't deserve either their love or their forgiveness."

"And yet you have it, in abundance," said Aslan quietly. "Come with me, now; they are waiting for us."

With a few words of greeting, Aslan left him with his siblings, and he felt bereft, afraid. "Hello," he began awkwardly, and found himself almost immediately with his arms full of Lucy. He held her tightly, a smile forming on his face. He'd betrayed her worst of all, yet here and now, she was the one who forgave him most quickly, wanting only to have her brother back. He let her go only to hug Susan, relishing the familiar, warm, maternal embrace that he'd missed so much. Though his greeting from Peter was sterner and less emotional, it gave him a clear message – he was accepted back into the fold.

Later, after he'd rested, he caught up on the food he'd sorely missed, and couldn't help but grin as Lucy teased him, "I don't think Narnia's going to run out of toast any time soon, Ed!" He couldn't bear to tell her of the deprivation he'd suffered; he didn't want her to pity him, as he knew she would, being so tender-hearted, for something he'd brought on himself, and deserved no sympathy for. But he was thankful for the food, and gratefully ate his fill. It was easier than he thought to stand up to Peter, too, insisting that they help. He was surprised that Susan supported him, and that Lucy gave him a radiant smile in thanks. For the first time in months, he felt a part of the family again, having a place where he belonged. He remembered Aslan's words to him about winter, and himself: _it is simply a part of the cycle of the year, as necessary to life as the other seasons are, in their turn._

As they were crowned kings and queens, he thought it fitting that they were given the points of the compass and the four elements, and smiled quietly at Aslan, knowing that he had deliberately not mentioned the seasons . But he knew that as well as being lord of the western wood, of west and earth, he was also the lord of winter. But it no longer grieved him; for, as Aslan had said, in winter comes Christmas… and who would want to miss Christmas?

He smiled as the coronation festivities began. It was a long time until winter would come round again, and he was determined to enjoy the other seasons as best he could. The Winter King would glory and bask in the warmth of the summer sun; and when the time came, he knew, the Summer King would enjoy the powdery snow of winter and the Christmas festivities he was already plotting out in his mind for his family. Lucy and Susan, too, would have no cause to fear and dislike the winter any more, but would enjoy the merriment that would come with Christmas. He raised a toast to Peter across the room, smiled as he saw Susan laughing, twirling on the dance floor, and went outside onto the balcony to find Lucy. Peace encompassed him as Tumnus left them together. He hugged Lucy as they watched Aslan's shadowy form slip across the sand, away from the castle. "Thank you," he said softly, knowing she understood.

She hugged him back. "It's okay."

And it was.


End file.
